


velvet dream on an iron fist

by ghostoftonantzin



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Femdermo, Oral Sex, canon-typical violence mention, mixed metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:36:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostoftonantzin/pseuds/ghostoftonantzin
Summary: Nandor burns with desire.
Relationships: Fem!Guillermo de la Cruz/Fem!Nandor the Relentless, Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	velvet dream on an iron fist

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up, this fic contains brief mentions of violence, not depicted or directed towards any of the characters.
> 
> This fic is also set in a genderswap AU I like to think of as "Oops! All Ladies"
> 
> Title from Richard Thompson's "You Dream Too Much"

Nandor had never paid much attention to the stories that were whispered throughout history, of emperors and kings felled by pleasure, swayed from the path of glory by the soft voice of a mistress whispering in their ear. She’d had villages to burn, territory to capture, treacherous advisors to execute. Her wives and mistresses had had to content themselves with the attention she could spare them, on the rare occasions she could.

But now her empire had eroded away under the sands of time, her name scrubbed from history and plastered over as an anomaly. Who was there to rebuke her for betraying herself to hedonism? Who was to judge her if she took a concubine?

Guillermo was leaning back against the headboard of the big four poster bed in the blue room, occupied with something on her little screen phone. Her soft mouth was pouting, and Nandor could see the lines between her brows from where she lay between her spread legs. She was not paying attention to Nandor, which seemed unjustifiable.

Nandor had been fortunate, though, that this was the extent of the impertinence that Guillermo gave her. She had shown her hand far too soon, inviting Guillermo into the bath once Nandor had finished, practically begging her to strip from her clothes so Nandor could be the one to wash her crown of curls and scrub the dirt from her hands and finally, to slip her hand underneath the water and between her legs.

And that hadn’t been enough, because the heat of the water and Guillermo’s body had sunk into her. She had wanted to force it out, at first, let it burn through her until there was nothing left to kindle the flame. Every surface in the house then, every couch and chaise and the ceiling, when Guillermo could stand it. Guillermo had insisted on putting down a blanket, because she said she didn’t want to clean all of it up, and wasn’t that an easy point of transition, because Nandor had better uses for her than scrubbing floors now.

Nandor could appreciate the blanket, because after a few days of use their fluids, mostly Nandor’s, had started to dry and harden on the soft cloth. Nandor had hung it over her doorframe to declare their new arrangement and quiet the doubt that lingered in the corners of Guillermo’s mouth until Guillermo had put it in the wash.

Unfortunately, bodies did not dispose of themselves, and so she needed Guillermo to train a new familiar. Guillermo hadn’t understood at first, had asked if she was being “fired”. Nandor had had to explain that while she was still responsible for maintaining the house, she would be directing someone else from her position in Nandor’s lap. Her metaphorical position, not that Nandor did not have her in her lap frequently, just not when Guillermo was actually explaining how to disassemble bodies to Topher.

Nandor had not used the word concubine, because sometimes words picked up new meanings while Nandor wasn’t noticing, especially sex words, and also because it was sexier to keep it for when it was just the two of them in bed together. Or on the couch together, or in the bath together. The point was that while Guillermo seemed glad to drop the vacuuming and also her clothes, she could be shy about these things.

She ran the pads of her fingers across the raised seam of Guillermo’s underwear and made to pull them off, but Guillermo shifted her weight and stopped her with a hand.

“One second, I just have to answer this question from Topher… She’s not going to get half the grocery list at this rate.” she said, eyes still fixed on the screen phone.

Nandor wanted to tell her that if Topher was not receiving her messages, then she needed to do something about the messenger. That had been an easy fix for her as empress; just behead them and anyone else in her way.

Nandor contented herself for the moment with tracing the thin pale lines on the swell of Guillermo’s inner thigh where it met the hip, the way she had been taught to draw the river deltas over fertile lands on maps when she was a girl. Such a sweet piece of flesh, soft and malleable and unbothered by muscle and exertion. And kept wrapped demurely beneath her khaki skirts, only for Nandor to unwrap.

Guillermo had kept the finest parts of herself hidden from Nandor, at first, under loose skirts and sweaters in a modern fashion Nandor had never been able to mold herself to. But she burned like a candle behind cut paper underneath them, still casting shadows of her heavy breasts and sumptuous hips that Nandor had been able to see only like a shadow play on the wall. 

It had happened in the library, when Guillermo had bent over to pull the vacuum across the floor. Nandor had seen that crease that developed at her navel before, but she had never before been struck by the urge to place her fingers on her stomach and feel the soft weight of flesh settle over her fingers as Guillermo bent over on some assumed pretext. Her fingertips had felt hot imagining the warmth of her flesh burning through the thick wool, like she was still young and human and holding her torches meant for burning fields too close to the flame.

Finally, Guillermo sighed and put her phone on the nightstand. She lifted her hips and slid her underwear to Nandor’s waiting fingers, then leaned forward to unhook her bra and drape it on the floor. 

Her body settled into the bed as she opened her legs. Nandor could see the jewel of the plug that she had placed in her earlier that evening glisten in the candlelight. Nandor leaned forward, finally, to put her mouth where she burned hottest.

Guillermo sighed again, this time with pleasure, and folded her arms over her head. She looked like a figure in one of those renaissance paintings. Nandor had never been able to appreciate that when she had been alive, that sort of quiet relaxation in anticipation of no more responsibility than pleasure. She didn’t remember desire unless she was reaching beyond it, waking up for dawn patrol or setting out on another campaign. 

But Guillermo had opened something up within her, like the time Laszlo had fallen through a false wall in the basement and ended up in that room filled with mummified bodies that none of them had put there. Guillermo was Laszlo in that scenario, and the room was Nandor’s unbridled desire. Maybe the bodies represented her sex toy collection? She didn’t recall where she had gotten the plug Guillermo now wore, as a matter of fact.

Guillermo hadn’t had to crash through any wall, though; she had just melted it with her heat, like glass panes burning in one of the churches Nandor had set to flame, once. Or a few times, the pillaging tended to blur together.

Guillermo squirmed a bit under her touch, bringing Nandor back to the moment. There was always a lingering trace of discomfort at being observed that Nandor tried to soothe with her tongue and her fingers. A holdout from years of underappreciation and insufficient regard, Nandor suspected. She still complained a lot about laundry for someone who could render Nandor ravenous with just a glance from underneath her long eyelashes.

She sighed and gasped and grew wetter under Nandor’s attention, whimpering as Nandor replaced her mouth with her fingers so she could use it to attend to her breasts. Fucking her, in whatever combination of mouth and fingers and objects, was like speaking a forgotten language, like seeing a razed temple stretching towards the sky in its full glory. Nandor could hardly believe her luck, like Guillermo’s body was an ancient artifact she had uncovered, perfectly preserved. 

Guillermo was afraid, Nandor suspected, that she would be deposed in favor of Topher in Nandor’s regard. Nandor had patiently explained to her why that was impossible. The two of them were like a guillotine and an executioner’s axe. A guillotine was the final product of progress, an artless machine. It had none of the grace and beauty of a perfectly sharpened blade descending between the vertebrae. The conciseness of its acceleration could never compare to the feeling of the cartilage between vertebrae snapping and the shift in the balance of a body as the head separated under her hands. Guillermo hadn’t looked like she understood, though.

And besides, if Nandor had had any interest in Topher, would she have let Nadja and Laszlo welcome Topher into their cold embrace? Guillermo really wasn’t thinking things through.

Guillermo whimpered and shuddered as she came, legs unconsciously trying to press together. Nandor rubbed her through it, until the last tremors had passed through her body and Guillermo groaned with overstimulation. Nandor removed her fingers and Guillermo slumped down and let her hands fall onto the bed, eyes glassy and unfocused. Nandor laid against her, contenting herself with the warmth of her body.

That first night, Guillermo had stepped out of the bathtub, flushed with blood and skin shining as luminous as a pearl. Her dark curls hung down her back and framed her body like a silhouette. She had looked in that moment like one of the little paintings of saints that Nandor had seen in Italy, their purity in their pale blues and pinks that had made her eyes bleed, and Nandor had knelt before her, holding a towel for her, waiting in supplication to wrap it around her skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like every time I read a new book, I get inspired to write a new bizarre fic in its style. This one was "Arturo's Island", so my apologies to Elsa Morante.


End file.
